Demonic Pornstar System novel Chapter 639

Chapter 639: Fate of Gangsters

The alley swallowed sound and returned it distorted.

Another punch landed. These hits were far from warning strikes. Knuckles cracked against bone with a thick, ugly thud.

Damian’s head snapped sideways. Blood sprayed in a visible arc, catching the dim light overhead before dripping down the brick behind him. He sagged, but the man gripping his hair kept him upright, fingers twisted deep into silver strands.

"You think this is a shortcut?" the ruined-ear thug barked. "You think you can just stroll through and sell on our turf?!"

A knee drove into Damian’s stomach.

He folded, choking.

"Answer me!"

"I—I wasn’t—" he gasped, voice shredded.

A backhand silenced him.

The white-eyed one leaned closer. His left eye was milky and unfocused, the right sharp and ugly. "You kids think just ’cause you got clean shoes and a fancy phone, you can do whatever you want. This is our corner. Our money. Our people."

He squeezed Damian’s throat until the boy winced.

"You don’t breathe here unless we let you."

From the rooftop of the adjacent building, Kaiden crouched at the edge like a shadow carved into the concrete. His gaze remained locked below on Damian.

Living in the Ashborn manor. Protected. Comfortable. His future was secured before he even understood the value of it. Tuition paid anywhere he wanted. Opportunities that most people would kill for were handed to him without cost.

So why was he here?

Kaiden didn’t understand.

The thugs didn’t look like random opportunists. Ink crawled over their arms, sporting snakes, blades, and other gang symbols layered over older gang symbols. One of them was missing two fingers. Another had a puckered scar running from temple to chin. These weren’t bored teenagers.

And Damian had stepped into their territory.

Why?

A stomp came down on Damian’s shoulder.

A sickening crunch.

The boy screamed.

Kaiden’s jaw tightened.

His mind tried to piece it together.

Damian lives in a guarded estate.

Escorted transport.

Access to anything he needs.

He doesn’t need money. With Aria’s rise, the Lavender family’s financial security was all but secured. The girl was making generational wealth every other week.

So why would her brother be here?

Another punch.

This one caught Damian across the cheekbone. Skin split. Blood poured freely now, soaking into the collar of his shirt.

"You were warned already," the ruined-ear man hissed. "We saw you sniffing around last week, too."

Sniffing around?

Kaiden’s eyes sharpened.

A memory surfaced of the first time he went to Aria’s apartment.

Lux had been there, bright and loud and curious. Aria had been smiling, trying not die of shame due to the horrible state of her home, hoping her boyfriend wouldn’t think of her as a filthy woman.

Then her phone rang.

Her expression had changed instantly.

Damian had been caught trying to sell weed.

The police hadn’t charged him, but Aria had gone pale, apologizing over and over. Promises were made. Meetings were scheduled.

Kaiden remembered the tightness in her voice.

The embarrassment.

The worry.

Back then, Damian had still been living in that cramped apartment. Still restless. Still angry at the world for his unlucky family situation.

So why was he here now?

He had everything Kaiden thought he wanted.

But now was not the time to theorize, Kaiden realized.

...

Marko liked the sound a body made when it stopped resisting. There was a point in every beating where fear overtook defiance, and the victim’s muscles went soft, where the fight leaked out through split lips and swelling eyes. He lived for that moment. It reminded him that the world still made sense when territory was respected, hierarchy maintained, and consequences enforced. He twisted his fist deeper into Damian’s hair and dragged his head back again, ignoring the way the kid’s fingers clawed weakly at his wrist.

Petru crouched close, studying the boy’s face with clinical detachment. He enjoyed the slow part more than the impact itself. The understanding dawning in someone’s eyes. The realization that nobody was coming. "You had chances," he said quietly, almost disappointed. "We told you to stay away. You come back anyway. Honestly, all you really have to blame is yourself."

Viper, massive and broad-shouldered, grabbed Damian’s injured arm and bent it just enough to draw a sharp cry. He didn’t speak much; he preferred action. Pain was clearer than language.

Another punch. Another grunt.

Then Petru felt it first.

A shift in the air.

Instinct, honed by years of watching corners and scanning rooftops, made him glance upward.

His good eye focused.

And his blood ran cold.

A man stood on the edge of the tall building overlooking the alley. Not leaning. Not crouched. Standing casually at the brink, the coat was faintly stirring in the night breeze.

"What the-" Petru breathed.

The figure stepped forward.

Marko saw it a fraction too late. "Is he-"

The man fell.

Except he didn’t fall as a body should. There was no flailing, no panic. He descended in a straight line, silent and controlled, and landed beside Damian with a muted crack in the pavement that spiderwebbed beneath polished shoes. Dust rose in a small ring around him.

He straightened slowly.

Up close, he was tall. Taller than any of them. But it wasn’t just height.

It was the way he occupied space, the way his presence seemed to press outward and downward at the same time. Marko had fought men bigger than this before, but none of them had ever felt like this, like the air itself was bending around them.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify